


'Till The End of All Time

by Mazarin221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1890s, 1920s, 1940s, 1960s, All the configurations of tops and bottoms, Angst, Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Experienced Crowley (Good Omens), First Times, Happy Ending, Humor, Hundred Guineas Club, M/M, Mostly TV canon, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Seriously when have I ever not given a happy ending, They have had other partners over the years, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), love over time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-07-23 19:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20013682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley from one ill-fated intimate encounter in 1601 until the present day. Crowley knows that Aziraphale has a few boyfriends, Crowley himself has affairs, but the attraction between them never seems to abate. At some point, it will consume them both.Aziraphale hasn’t taken a lover in a thousand years, ever since they’d left Essex, and Crowley isn’t sure what that means but it must mean something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the love in the world to HiddenLacuna for delightful betawork! 
> 
> That said: This is a WIP, which is all plotted out in terms of chapters, what happens, etc. I'll write as I'm able, hopefully a chapter a week. I love what I've got planned and I hope you will, too.

Crowley had decided long, long ago that one of the most beautiful sights in Creation was Aziraphale’s smile. Not the gentle one, the kind one; the one where he’s so absolutely thrilled by whatever has happened he lights the entire sky with his joy.

So it’s worth a few weeks of, frankly, rather hard work to fill the stalls at the Globe, to take a humdrum production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet and turn it into a roaring success. When Aziraphale walks into the theatre, he turns that blinding smile on Crowley, so radiant in his happiness that Crowley can barely look him full in the face without flushing from his hairline to his toes.

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, taking in the packed stalls humming with the excited chattering of three thousand people, bright silks scattered throughout the crowd like jewels, the raised cries of fruit-sellers and spiced wine merchants. “This is _wonderful._ ”

“Yes, well,” Crowley drawls, trying his hardest to be absolutely nonchalant about the entire thing. “It’s not that bad of a play, once you get past the - ”

“Master Burbage must be absolutely ecstatic,” Aziraphale cuts in, and Crowley quirks an eyebrow.

“Burbage? Who cares two figs for Burbage? I didn’t do this for him, you know,” Crowley grouses, the _I did it for you, you daft angel_ going unsaid. But Aziraphale is avidly watching the stage and pulling Crowley along by the sleeve until they reach the private box that Crowley reserved for them; the attendant lifts the curtain and they duck inside and take their seats.

“Well, I mean, I know I asked you to help, but honestly, with all the outlay to move the theatre so soon after his father’s death, I’m sure this must be a real weight off of his mind.” Aziraphale settles himself into his chair and leans forward until he can rest his hands on the edge of the balcony and peer over the crowd. The light from the open roof catches his hair just so; the riot of curls over his forehead glowing. He looks so blissfully pleased Crowley doesn’t have the heart to complain at him for bringing up Burbage.

He’ll bide his time. Aziraphale hasn’t taken a lover in a thousand years, ever since they’d left Essex, and Crowley isn’t sure what that means but it must mean _something._

The next four hours pass in a bit of a blur, Crowley kicking back in his chair and watching Aziraphale watch the play. He glances over at Crowley every so often at a slight change in a line, or in the arrangement of a scene, as if to ask _was this all your doing_? And Crowley would nod or shrug or, once, stick his tongue out when Aziraphale whispered that he thought killing off Ophelia via suicidal drowning was a bit excessive. “It’s dramatic,” he whispers back, and shrugs.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Crowley enjoys the hell out of his annoyance.

But end it finally does, and Burbage comes out on stage to a roar of applause and stamping feet. He has the grace to blush and look shy and pleased, but takes his bows and adulation, Aziraphale’s among it. Crowley slouches in his chair as Aziraphale stands and claps and smiles, and Burbage must spot him from the stage, because Aziraphale waves and Burbage lights up like a million stars. He gestures to the side of the stage, and Aziraphale nods.

“What was that all about?” Crowley asks, then pops to his feet when Aziraphale parts the curtain and steps out into the corridor. “Where are you going?”

“Meeting Burbage backstage,” Aziraphale says, and huffs out a breath as he’s pushed by the throngs of people all trying to fit through the narrow walkways.

“What?” Crowley asks, and tries not to lose track of him, but there are a lot of people and the corridors are so very small, and Aziraphale gets a bit ahead of him. Crowley curses under his breath and follows that bright shock of hair as he works his way down to the area backstage, stopping outside of the doors that close the stage area off from the corridors that lead outside.

“He’ll be along in a minute, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says, his fingers twisting his handkerchief into a long rope. He almost looks nervous, and Crowley is instantly annoyed.

“Don’t know why you care so much about that trollop Burbage, anyway,” Crowley grumbles. “Thought we’d go get supper, after.”

Aziraphale taps him on the shoulder. “Shush. I’d like to congratulate him, is all. And he’s not a trollop, Crowley.”

“Is.” Crowley is feeling peevish now, and he’s not entirely sure why.

“Isn’t, and keep your opinions to yourself. Ah, Master Burbage!” Aziraphale says, brightening as the door opens. It is, indeed, Burbage, scrubbed clean of the flour and talc that had been used to give him a sallow, pale appearance, and back in his regular clothes. The scarlet and gold brocade of his tunic was a bit brash, in Crowley’s opinion, and made him look like he was trying too hard, but Aziraphale smiles and blushes when Burbage takes his hand.

“My dear Mr. Fell, what a delight it is to see you! I’d heard you’d been gone to Scotland these three weeks, so I’m so happy to have something wonderful to share with you now that you’re back.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased, Burbage, everything was so wonderful!” Crowley rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out. Aziraphale kicks him in the shin, and Crowley wanders off before he’s dragged into having to add to the effusive praise Aziraphale is pouring over Burbage’s person.

Burbage, for his part, is preening like a peacock, Aziraphale’s praise obviously striking the right note and inflating his ego to a ridiculous degree.

“...and we’re going to The George Inn - I’d be happy to treat you to supper, if you’ve a mind to eat, in celebration of your success. It’s so wonderful, Richard, truly.”

Richard? “We were going to supper, remember, ah,” _Whatever is his name here, Crowley can barely remember from one century to the next_ “-- Andrew.” He can barely suppress a wince, such a pedestrian name for the Angel of the Eastern Gate.

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t mind if Mr. -- I mean, Richard -- goes with us, right, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and pleading, and Crowley is no match for them.

“No, I suppose not,” he sighs.  
  
Aziraphale positively _beams_.

……………………………………………………………

Supper is hell. Or, at least, as close an approximation of Hell that Crowley has experienced on Earth. Burbage _is_ interesting, damn him, funny and ribald and a bit sly, and Crowley would like him under any other circumstances than that of Aziraphale blushing and fluttering his eyelashes over the top of his goblet of a rather decent French red. He should just curse Burbage’s to vinegar, the bastard.

Aziraphale isn’t even talking to Crowley; his attention is completely centered on Burbage, even going so far as to scoot closer to him, put his hand on Burbage’s arm, smile and charm him with that ineffable essence Aziraphale has. It's something more than friendliness - a guileless, delightful light that draws everyone in, makes them feel at ease, makes them feel cared for.

It’s what has drawn Crowley for over five thousand years, after all.

Which is why Crowley is so miffed. Aziraphale has always (well, almost always) given Crowley all of his attention when he was around, cheerfully thwarting his wiles, helping him get a few temptations done behind the scenes, and generally doing a better job tempting Crowley into more drunken shenanigans than Crowley would have thought up on his own. Most of those shenanigans were generally in the service of making Aziraphale’s lips pinch together in disapproval at the same time his eyes sparkled with mirth, and the resulting flutter in Crowley’s chest when they did.

So he watches Aziraphale and glowers at Burbage’s flirtations and shoves pickled oysters and buttered shrimp in his mouth to keep it occupied, and drinks, and drinks, and _drinks_.

“But if you need money, my dear Richard, I’m happy to help you. I know how much your father’s theatre interests mean to you.” Crowley tunes in quickly, his eyebrows migrating to somewhere near his hairline. Oh, that sneaky little _snake_ , trying to wile _his_ angel. Crowley would be impressed if he weren’t so pissed off.

Burbage puts his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It’s so kind of you, Andrew, truly. Just a small loan, a trifling amount, would be enough to keep me afloat until next month.”

Crowley leans forward, both elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “All those admissions to the Globe not enough, are they? Or your salary? Or the lease of Blackfriars?”

Aziraphale rears back as if Crowley had slapped him. “My goodness, Crowley, that’s a bit much, isn’t it? I’m happy to help Richard if he needs it.”

Burbage just tilts his head and smiles quizzically, as if he couldn’t quite figure out Crowley’s angle, but was ready to argue the point anyway. “I don’t see how it’s any of your concern what it’s for, Mr. Crowley,” he says. “That’s between Andrew and myself.”

“Prob’ly a new doublet,” Crowley mumbles.

“If you can’t be civil, Crowley, just step outside. I’ll be with you later.” Aziraphale is frowning at him now, and Crowley shoves back from the small table, weary with his own emotions at the unexpected turn of his evening. His hopes of a delightful time needling Aziraphale about his preferred methods of temptation while watching him enjoy supper have been dashed on the rocks of Richard Burbage, of all people. He quickly walks through the crowd and steps out into the street, dodging piles of horse manure as he finds a cleanish spot to lean against the wall and think.

Crowley thinks about the shape of all of the lovers who’d come before - some he had known and some he hadn’t, usually hearing about them afterward over a cask of ale or a bottle of wine. Smart, bookish types every one, save one glorious gladiator, whom Aziraphale had saved from the Colosseum and who had taken an angel for his prize. Crowley had teased Aziraphale for years about him, a beautiful, well-muscled young man without a spark of intelligent conversation anywhere about him. Aziraphale had shrugged and said, “He’s very ... _generous_ ,” and Crowley had laughed until he was sick.

But all in all, it was a rare individual here and there who sparked Aziraphale’s interest, someone he would wine and dine and take to bed, usually keeping them around for a few weeks or months at a time, then gently let them go into the arms of a more suitable partner. Crowley had never had an issue with it; he’d done the same, participating with hellish glee in orgies, taking men and women to bed with equal fervour when the fancy struck him, having fucked and been fucked. He’s tried every flavour of sexual congress known to man and invented a few, but there’s one thing he’s never, ever done.

Bedded Aziraphale.

Oh, he’d thought about it a time or two over the millennia, but it wasn’t until recently that he’d realized that the reason all of his demonic affairs had felt so flat was that nothing had yet compared to the simple glow in his chest when Aziraphale had smiled at him, the feeling of wholeness he had when they were together. Crowley wonders if some part of him still craves Heaven’s grace, and that’s Aziraphale personified.

He heaves a sigh and kicks at stones on the street. The entire situation is completely ridiculous and impossible, because Crowley is no fool. Hell would hang him by the manifested bollocks if he were caught, and it was anyone’s guess what Heaven would do to an angel caught in flagrante with a demon. So Crowley adjusts his attitude and walks back into the pub, determined to behave himself. He climbs the stairs to the second floor dining room and opens the door.

Burbage is in Aziraphale’s lap, and they’re kissing. It’s an open-mouthed, twining, passionate kiss, Burbage already two hands under Aziraphale’s doublet, Aziraphale grasping generous handfuls of Burbage’s arse. Aziraphale's lace ruff is undone and hanging off the back of the chair. Crowley can feel hellish fire itch in his palms because Envy is a capital S Sin, as is Lust, and Crowley doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about either when he slams the door closed and they both whip their heads around at the sound.

Crowley notes that neither one remove their hands from each other.

“Oh my, Mr. Fell. It seems we’ve been rumbled,” Burbage says, and shifts so he’s settled more comfortably on Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley doesn’t miss the look in his eyes, the one that telegraphs his possessiveness, his determination to have what he wants, and Crowley lifts his chin in defiance.

“Get lost,” he growls, “Before I do it for you.”

Aziraphale sputters. “This isn’t any of your - “

“He’s going, or I am.”

Aziraphale looks between them, his eyes shifting from Burbage’s face to Crowley’s, and he must sense how very serious Crowley is about sending Burbage off to parts unknown. “Richard, let me deal with this here, and I’ll find you later, yes? We’ll discuss it all then.” Aziraphale grasps Burbage’s chin and kisses him, defiantly looking at Crowley as he does so. “My deepest apologies for my … acquaintance.”

That hurts, as Aziraphale surely intended, and Crowley collapses into a chair and sulks there as Burbage picks up his hat and bows, courtly, to Aziraphale.

“I look forward to it, my dear Andrew. Perhaps a private room where we won’t be interrupted next time is in order. I will watch for you after the performance tomorrow.” He spins on his heel and sweeps from the room, and Crowley can feel a knot unwind in his chest.

“He’s obnoxious,” he declares, and takes a swig of wine. Aziraphale, on the other hand, doesn't look quite so relieved. In fact he looks murderous, his face a picture of indignation, and Crowley braces himself as Aziraphale walks over to stand over him in his chair. He has to tip his head back, back and look up, and suddenly he feels very precariously balanced indeed.

“How dare you,” Aziraphale snarls, his voice low and cold with fury. “This is hard enough alone; must you ruin the few chances there are to connect with someone? To not be perpetually isolated and lonely? I spent a week travelling to Scotland and a week getting back, all by myself, in the rain, partly for you, and now I get to spend my nights alone, too.”

Crowley swallows heavily. “That’s … that’s not what I intended …” he starts

“But that’s exactly what you got,” Aziraphale snaps, and he starts pacing. “There’s nothing about our lives that’s stable, nothing we get to keep. But for Her sake, just an occasional connection would be nice, someone who cares about me and thinks of me sometimes. Someone out there in the universe who wants me.”

“But I want you,” Crowley says, then wants to discorporate himself entirely out of shame.

Aziraphale’s eyes go very wide, then before Crowley can blink, Aziraphale straddles him in the chair and brings his mouth down on Crowley’s in a kiss so desperate, so passionate, Crowley is barely able to hang onto the edges of his thoughts.

“You obnoxious, half-witted _reprobate_ ,” Aziraphale pants against his mouth. “You could have said.”

Crowley’s head is spinning, and hands are busy getting Aziraphale’s belt off so he can get Aziraphale’s doublet open. “I’m saying now,” he rasps. The belt finally comes loose and Aziraphale, between kisses, miracles open all the buttons and Crowley moans at what he finds underneath - a very nice effort indeed.

“Oh, that’s going to be fun,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale squeaks as Crowley palms his cock through his leggings. “I do like a nice fat cock. Next time maybe a cunt, though, so you can ride my face.”

“Crude,” Aziraphale gasps, unbuttoning Crowley’s own doublet. “Why have you never said before now? Oh, my dear, your _hands_ -” Crowley has pushed under his leggings and has him in a long-fingered grip, and Aziraphale squirming on his lap is going to get this over with much, much too soon.

“Didn’t think it was on the table,” Crowley replies, heart stuttering. “But you’ve not, in so long. Were you waiting for me?”

“Don’t know,” Aziraphale replies, passing his hands over Crowley’s chest. “It just...I didn’t want anyone else, really, it was just getting too quiet.” Crowley gasps when Aziraphale pinches his nipple then sets his mouth to one, sucking and swirling his tongue around the peak, driving Crowley to drop any further questions. He pushes all of the deeper, panicky thoughts of Heaven and Hell and what might happen if they’re caught completely out of his mind, focusing on the here and now, the feel of Aziraphale’s body against his and the fluttery sensation in his stomach when Aziraphale gently blows across his damp skin.

They really should move to more comfortable surrounds, a beat up old pub chair not nearly good enough for his angel. “Up,” Crowley says, then locks the door with a gesture, miracles into existence a sizeable feather bed, and pushes Aziraphale into it before diving between his thighs. He’s warm and so enthusiastic, making little pleased sounds as Crowley settles into the cradle of his hips. Aziraphale cups the back of his head as they kiss, deep and slow and deliberate, tasting each other, learning the way they fit together, Crowley’s little smudge of a goatee tickling Aziraphale’s chin and Aziraphale’s fingers threaded through Crowley’s long hair.

Crowley dips his head and licks up Aziraphale’s throat, trying to pull out more of those sounds, and Aziraphale obliges him, moaning as Crowley sets his teeth delicately to the tendon there.

“This isn’t getting you out of trouble for bothering Richard,” Aziraphale pants, and Crowley nips him. Aziraphale slaps his back. “Ouch, you wretched demon, watch your teeth.”

Crowley snickers and rolls his hips, thrusting until Aziraphale’s eyes slide half-closed with arousal, his mouth open on a sigh. “Say his name again and I’ll leave you just like this,” Crowley says, then pulls his leggings down so he can rut against him skin to skin, the heat of him bleeding into Crowley’s body. “You’re too good for that con artist. I’m the only one for you, angel.” Crowley swallows Aziraphale’s gasp with a kiss and at the same time grabs a handful of Aziraphale’s leggings where they’re shoved halfway down his thighs and yanks until they rip apart in his hands.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Want you. Need you. Please, Crowley, _please_.” Azirapahle lifts one knee out, opening himself, making it very clear what he wants. Crowley is in no mood to disappoint him, so he shucks his doublet, kicks off his leggings and settles back in, his cock slipping against Aziraphale’s own, sliding in the crook of his thigh.

“I’m going to fuck you, my precious Principality. You’re going to scream for me, and then I’m going to do it again, and again.”

Aziraphale smirks, then shifts his hips until Crowley is positioned against him, and when he hooks a leg around Crowley’s waist to pull him in tighter, he’s already slick and open and ready. “Maybe you’ll scream for me, instead, don’t you think?” he says slyly.

Crowley is impressed by his boldness, and very, very turned on.

He presses in, a slow, concentrated slide that should have Aziraphale feeling every inch of him, every ridge, every vein. Aziraphale closes his eyes and whimpers when Crowley bottoms out, and they pause, not moving, the room silent around them.

“Open your eyes, angel,” Crowley whispers. “Look at me.”

Aziraphale does, but slowly, his eyes fluttering open just a sliver, then he blinks and stares, intent, at Crowley’s face. Aziraphale’s body is warm, tight, welcoming; he’s soft and plush and decadent and Crowley wants to just sink into him forever.

“You’re perfection,” Crowley says, and begins to move.

“Waited so long,” Azirapahle breathes. “You’re just…I never expected...” He matches Crowley’s rhythm, meeting him thrust for thrust.

Crowley shoves a hand behind Aziraphale’s knee and pushes it back further, trying to get just the right angle. For his part, Aziraphale lies back and lets Crowley manhandle him a bit, lets Crowley chase his pleasure until Crowley finally gets it right, Aziraphale’s little huffs of breath pushed into startled moans.

“That’s it, angel,” Crowley says, feeling the shimmering heat of his own orgasm starting to coalesce. “Let me hear you.” His hips press into the back of sweet, soft thighs, and Crowley brushes a kiss to the inside of Aziraphale’s knee where he’s pulled it further up to his chest. Aziraphale is flushed and panting, eyes closed, and Crowley touches his cheek. “What else do you need? What do you want?”

Aziraphale gasps out a cry as Crowley snaps his hips forward harder, then says “Touch me, kiss me, please, I’m so close, darling, so close - “

Crowley swoops in and kisses him, bears his weight on one elbow so he can reach down and close his fist over Aziraphale’s gorgeous cock. The foreskin slips over the head, wet with precome, the sound of Crowley’s hand on him a lewd counterpoint to the gasps and moans and rhythmic slap of skin on skin as Crowley fucks him until Aziraphale arches and comes with a hiccupping cry, a wash of hot fluid spilling over Crowley’s hand.

By God he's exquisite. The line of his body as he arches, even the sharp scent of his come is intoxicating. Crowley lifts his hand to his mouth and reverently sucks the come from his fingers as he continues to move, positively relishing the taste. Aziraphale looks captivated by his actions, maybe a touch hungry, and that's enough for Crowley to tip over the edge himself, coming in long, sweet pulses into Aziraphale’s body.

“Oh, you’re gorgeous,” Crowley whispers, then gently pulls away, and rolls over onto his back on the bed. “We waited entirely too long to do that.”

Aziraphale props himself up on his elbows and smiles. He’s an absolute mess -- hair a tangled riot of curls, smears of come on his stomach, his skin pink and glistening. He looks well-fucked, Crowley thinks smugly, and reaches out to pull him down into a cuddle.

Aziraphale giggles and pushes back. “No, cleanup first, I’m all sticky,” he says, and miracles away all traces of their lovemaking before Crowley can object. He rather likes the mess after, the physical traces of what they’d done, but he stays quiet as Aziraphale settles on his side, head on Crowley’s chest.

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect that after coming back from Scotland,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds slightly sleepy.

Crowley kisses the top of his head. “Well, what can I say, I was a bit covetous. _Burbage_ , Aziraphale, _honestly_.”

“I’m not talking about it when I can still feel your cock in me,” Aziraphale says primly, and Crowley laughs.

“Sleep then, and we’ll deal with it tomorrow. Too sleepy to think now.”

He closes his eyes, snugs Aziraphale closer to his side, and stops thinking all together.

………………………………………………………………………….

They wake up at the same time, Crowley blinking his eyes open in the bright sun of a beautiful autumn afternoon. His mouth feels cottony and dry, result of neither of them bothering to purge themselves of the wine they had drunk the night before. He tips his head to the side and there is Aziraphale, eyes wide open, staring at Crowley like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, a flutter of panic settling in the lines around his mouth. Crowley can feel the gut punch of what they’d done last night in his very core, fear gripping him by the throat and not letting go.

“We can’t do this again,” Aziraphale blurts, and thank God he’d said it because Crowley was too terrified to. “We’d both be destroyed.”

“You’re right. I hate it, because you are...you’re the only one, angel. My only one.”

Aziraphale has tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes. “Please tell me we’ll still stay friends. Arrangement and all. I’ll never make it here without you.”

Crowley feels like his heart is being torn out of his chest, but to continue this would be madness. It’s one thing to share work, it’s quite another to literally sleep with the enemy, and they both know it. “I will always be here with you. Always.” Crowley reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand, and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. “Perhaps one day --”

“No,” Aziraphale cuts in. “I can’t think about it. Let’s just remember this one beautiful night, and let the world take its course.”

Crowley nods. It’s their best option.

So they do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley can feel every ugly feeling he’s ever had roar up in his chest at that simple gesture, an overwhelming wave of possessiveness that threatens to choke him where he sits, and that must be what does it, because Aziraphale’s eyes snap to his, wide and wondering. Crowley raises his drink in a mock salute, then reaches up and places a hand on the arm of the man standing next to him. He has no idea who this man is, but it doesn’t matter. They’re all here for the same reason, and damned if Aziraphale is going to be the only one playing this game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to Lacuna for delightful betawork and hey I'm getting better, she only had to fix my typo of Aziraphale 3 times!  
> I feel like I should warn for Az and Crowley being pretty viciously petty and mean to each other in this chapter.

Aziraphale sighs happily around the last mouthful of a sugar crepe, his tongue chasing the sweetness off of his fork before he puts it back on his plate, and Crowley wonders if his cravat was always this tight. He takes a sip of wine, swallows, and pays the cheque before Aziraphale even notices it was about to be brought to the table.

Well, he thought so, at least. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him when the waiter stops in his tracks on the way to their table, coins very suddenly in hand. Crowley shrugs.

“At least let me treat you to a delightful port I was able to procure on the Continent,” Aziraphale says, and ushers them out of the door. “I did get a room at a rather decent hotel, if you’d like to join me.”

Crowley looks at him sharply, but nothing seems to be on offer other than the wine, so he nods and follows Aziraphale back to one of the nicer hotels still remaining in the City center, one that hasn’t been taken over by Revolutionaries or their cronies. The Pavilion de la Reine is still elegantly furnished and brightly lit as the autumn evening darkens the skies. Aziraphale holds a candle high above their heads as they climb the stairs together, Aziraphale nattering on about how uncomfortable his ridiculous hat was, and how the infusion of democracy didn’t necessarily require that one eliminate all standards of dress, really, though getting rid of the sumptuary laws was probably a good idea.

Crowley hums and nods in all the right places, watches Aziraphale whip the red hat from his head as soon as they make it up to the door. The door clicks open and the large, airy room is well furnished and so very, very Aziraphale, with bright cream silk-covered chairs and settees, a large fireplace laid and ready to be lit, and a canopied feather bed in the corner piled high with a satin duvet and a half dozen pillows.

He’s lucky he wasn’t brought to the guillotine before this, the ridiculous hedonist. He loves his little pleasures, does his angel, and Crowley can only chuckle as Aziraphale lights the fire and retrieves the bottle kit out from the large bureau.

“You know, Crowley,” he says, as he stirs the silver tongs around in the fire, “it really was fortunate you were around. How did you come to be here, if this isn’t all really your doing?” He clamps the hot tongs around the neck of the bottle, watching it carefully.

Crowley kicks back on the settee and props his feet up on the arm of it, ignoring when Aziraphale clucks his tongue at him. “Well, honestly, I was doing a bit of work at the Convent, you know. Temptations, second-guessing decisions, all that.”

Aziraphale pauses where he’s got the neck of the port bottle now wrapped in a cold cloth. “At Les Feuillants? Oh _Crowley_ , they’re novices there, you hideous thing! Practically children!” Aziraphale cracks the neck of the port bottle with a bit more force than is called for, and some sloshes into the cloth, staining it a deep, dark red. He gasps and holds it away from him, trying not to stain his clothes. Crowley jumps up and takes the bottle, pouring it through the silver strainer while Aziraphale cleans his hands in the basin in the corner.

“Look, I don’t get to question orders, Aziraphale, you know this. Besides, I don’t see you shedding a whole lot of tears for dear old Jean-Claude today, so don’t lecture me.” A rather largish piece of glass gets caught in the strainer as he decants and Crowley frowns. Rather a sloppy job of it, all the way around.

Aziraphale walks over to the table and pours himself a glass. He looks at it in the light, swirls and watches the legs of it run down the side. Crowley thinks he’s going to ignore that last little jab but then he meets his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’d heard, before. That he’d murdered nine hundred and ninety eight people before me, and he’d cheerfully decided I was going to be nine hundred and ninety nine, despite having committed no crime whatsoever, other than being, well. Fashionably dressed.” Aziraphale takes a sip of his port and smiles softly into his glass. “I don’t believe they’d have actually executed him, they’d recognize him before long. But perhaps the scare will cause him to rethink his life choices.”

Crowley barks a laugh. “You are, quite possibly, the most devious, cattiest angel I have ever met. Delightful.” Crowley reaches out and taps his glass to Azriaphale’s, the crystal chiming. Aziraphale blushes a bit but smiles, and even in his dark blue jacket, the darkest colour Crowley has ever seen him wear, he looks lovely. Silence settles around them, and Crowley clears his throat and sits down on the settee.

“I’m probably finished, here,” he says carefully. “Could accompany you back to England, if you like.”

Aziraphale drains the last of his glass and reaches over to pour them another before settling down next to Crowley. Their shoulders barely brush, but each time is a an electric jolt straight to Crowley’s soul. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, simply tips the decanter until Crowley’s glass is brimming.

“I’m set to travel to Marseilles tomorrow, yes.” he says. “I’m sure there is plenty of space if you’re going back as well.”

Crowley can see the edge of the ridiculous bed out of the corner of his eye. He tries to not focus on the fact that they’re alone for the first time in decades, that the last time they were alone Aziraphale had climbed into his lap and taken exactly what he’d wanted, and Crowley can feel the tension beginning to press on his chest, weighing him down. They had agreed. They can’t. Never again.

Aziraphale must feel the tension too, because he turns to Crowley and, with his lip caught in his teeth, glances all over Crowley’s face before settling on his mouth.

Crowley puts down his glass.

Aziraphale reaches out with a shaking hand and pulls one end of Crowley’s cravat loose, before he wraps it around his fingers and pulls Crowley in, until they’re almost, almost touching, but not quite.

“I know what we said,” he rasps, and Crowley swallows heavily. “But --”

“I know. It’s...but we can’t, though,” Crowley says, and he’s never resisted a temptation like this, Aziraphale soft and lovely and _wanting_ , his eyes liquid with desire. “I just keep thinking about what they’d do if they found out. And I can’t lose you, angel. I can’t.”

Aziraphale tilts his head until he can brush his lips across Crowley’s cheek instead, the ends of Crowley’s cravat still in his hand. He looks like he’s about to cry, to weep with frustration as he stares at the tiny raven embroidered on the end of the fabric. Crowley can’t stand it, and he pulls Aziraphale into a hug, his chin resting on his shoulder.

“Oh angel, I’m sorry,” he says, and Aziraphale lets out a shuddery exhale. “I hate this. I hate them. One day we’ll run off together, you know? Hide away. But we can’t, not now. Not yet. Now, look at me, beautiful.”

Aziraphale raises his eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, to Crowley’s face. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I just...I missed you, is all.” He sniffs, then straightens up and tries to wipe all traces of his sadness from his face. “But! Tomorrow, we travel to Marseilles, then on to Dover. Be prepared, the coach is probably halfway to breaking down and heaven knows what sort of horses we’ll have. There has been a revolution on, you know.”

Crowley chokes out a laugh. They'll be okay, he thinks, as he pats Aziraphale's shoulder and finishes his wine.

They'll have to be.

………………………………….

The first thing Crowley thinks when he wakes up is “Aziraphale is probably still hacked off,” closely followed by “What year is it?”

  
Oh. 1893. He hadn’t meant to sleep that long, and Aziraphale is probably still hacked off, that bit about the Holy Water setting him off in a way Crowley hadn’t seen in centuries.

“ _I’m not an idiot, Crowley_ ,” he’d said, and Crowley realizes that Aziraphale didn’t believe him when he’d said he didn’t want it for a suicide pill. Still may not believe him, honestly, but it was hard to explain that Hell was getting a bit tetchy with him, sending out spies every so often, checking up on his reports, demanding evidence of work completed that Crowley had never had to provide before. He could feel the heat licking at his toes, and he needed a way to protect himself.

Protect both of them.

Crowley yawns and stretches and miracles away his tattered clothes, starting to rot away after thirty years. Ridiculous things, clothes. And now he’s got to sort out what everyone’s wearing these days. Crowley sighs and works out some sort of trousers and a plain shirt, combs his hair, and shoves out the door to give the new decade a go.

It only takes a few weeks to get his feet under him again - he finds he has to cut his hair shorter than it’s been since Rome, which is interesting. There’s a lot improved in London - the sewers, for one, but the air is awful, thick and yellow and polluted. The river is disgusting, too, so Crowley decides that it’s probably best to spend more of his time inside than out. He gravitates to a few gentlemen’s clubs he knew in the 1860s to see if they’re still in business, and they are, generally; quiet places for upper class men to go and drink and smoke and gamble and generally indulge in the sort of irresponsible behaviours their wives and polite society didn’t allow at home.

It’s only a few days into this that Crowley catches whispers about something called “The Hundred Guineas Club.”

None of these whispers are directed at him, but the illicit, low-voiced murmuring of men as they mention it has Crowley on high alert. New forms of debauchery were always something to be encouraged, and if there was any kind of new vice around he should probably see to it that he was educated, and quickly.

The idea of debauchery makes him think of Aziraphale, and of the righteous and holy light that might flare outward once he realizes Crowley is back amongst the conscious and working against him once more, and he quails. He hasn’t had the guts to talk to Aziraphale yet, not since their incident in the park gave him the incentive to hibernate for thirty years, and he’s not sure enough time has elapsed for Aziraphale’s snit to have passed. Aziraphale’s most memorable snit lasted over four hundred years, all over a plate of dates swimming in honey, and Crowley’s pilfering thereof.

He'd thought, at least. Now he wonders if the boy he’d fed them to had been the bridge too far, that time.

The bookshop is still open, he knows that much; he’d ridden by it in a hansom cab just the other day, pleased to see that the handwritten sign was still in the window, that the shades were up and a few unwelcome customers were inside, likely holding the books wrong.

So, Aziraphale is still in London.

Crowley pushes that fact to the back of his mind one Thursday evening as he descends from a hansom into Portland Place. He straightens his white tie and the diamond pin on his lapel, and taps the rather nondescript black door with an elegant ebony cane.

“May I help you?” comes through a small opening in the door. “I’m afraid you’re not expected.”

“Please tell Victoria that Antonia is here to see her,” Crowley says, with a crook of his eyebrow. “She was invited.”

The eyes in the opening go wide, then the little door slams and the larger door opens. “My apologies, Miss Victoria would be absolutely delighted to see Miss Antonia, if you would be so kind.” Crowley steps inside and removes his silk hat, then drops his gloves inside and hands it off to the waiting boy in the hall. Crowley eyes him carefully and miracles a bit extra into his pocket. Kid needs a better job than being in this den of sin, and Crowley carefully sends an idea of working as a busboy in a restaurant his way.

“I admit, it’s rare to get new members out of the blue, as it were, and Victoria didn’t make me aware you were coming,” The man from the door says, the feathers pinned into his hair bobbing. “So if you’ll just sign in here, sir, and you may deposit the fee at your leisure.”

Crowley looks at the ledger he is handed - a whole list of women’s names, from Claudia to Victoria to Penny to Octavia, have been written down, no last names attached. One, “Azalea,” catches his attention - that’s a plant, not a name. But he dutifully writes down “Antonia” as he knows he should, hands over twenty one, five pound notes, and lets himself be led into the club rooms.

“Remember, lights out at two am, and the staff are more than happy to oblige you if you find yourself without company,” the man from the front door says. “They’ll come back on by six. There are rooms upstairs, keys on the rack. The changing rooms are through here, and if you’ve not any kit of your own, you’re welcome to ask the staff - we have plenty of extras.”

Crowley nods and sweeps into the changing rooms. He doesn’t have “kit” - he’s not even sure what sort of kit he needs - so as soon as Mr. Front Door leaves Crowley slips out and carefully watches a few men as they duck into and out of the changing rooms. It doesn’t take him long to find out what “kit” they’re talking about.

Dresses. Most of the men, not all of them, are changing into dresses. Some are high-necked and prudish, some brilliantly elaborate, some plain. Crowley shrugs; it’s been a while since he wore a dress but this time he realizes if he wants to experience all of whatever the club has to offer - and based on one illuminating conversation he had a few days ago he’s got a pretty good idea now of what that is - he should play along. No sense getting all invested in one sort of clothing or another this day and age; besides, the tight waisted, low-busted dresses of this era are flattering to his male corporation, sliding smoothly over hips and arse, none of that stupid frippery of the 70s and 80s that he’s glad he missed.

So he snaps his fingers and a black, beaded evening gown pours over his body, the waist and shoulders picked out with red glass beads twisted into the impression of licks of flame. He slicks his hair back and pins a ruby and diamond snake brooch into it, pulls on black satin evening gloves that go up past his elbows, and looks critically in the little mirror.

Might be a bit intimidating for all but the boldest, but that’s the entire point.

He slinks out of the changing rooms and down the hall, passing a few men on the way who blatantly turn around and watch him, their eyes hot on his bared shoulders and neck. It’s been a while since he indulged in this sort of blatant sex play, but it’s nice, to feel the heat of someone’s gaze, to know that they find you pleasing to the eye, or that something about you excites their lust.

Crowley knows that he was created to excite lust, so that, in itself, isn’t so unusual. But the naked, open display of it, in a place designed for precisely that? Oh yes. Crowley shivers slightly as he settles himself on a dark green velvet chaise, his skirt spread artfully over his legs and across the seat.

“May I bring you a drink?” is spoken at his elbow before he can blink, and there, one of the ubiquitous telegram boys has appeared and looks ready to give him just about anything he could ask for. Crowley smiles at him, taking a small measure of pity. “Scotch, there’s a love,” he says, and sends the boy on his way with half a crown. Crowley takes the drink when he returns and shoos him away, not ready to commit to anything whatsoever until he sees what’s on offer. He smooths his skirt down with a gloved hand just as a cheer erupts across the room.

Crowley squints, but the corner is a bit dark. There are a few people sitting around in chairs, on the floor, draped over each other’s shoulders. It’s hard to see everyone at once, but Crowley has excellent hearing, and he focuses to see what’s causing all the excitement - and figure out if he wants to get involved in it.

“-but you dance the gavotte so beautifully, my dear,” someone says. “Like a dream. Are you sure you won’t show us again, Azalea?”

Crowley frowns. The gavotte? Must be a new thing. A giggle sounds from amongst the bevy of young men and Crowley nearly drops his drink.

It’s Aziraphale. He’d know that laugh anywhere.

Indeed, once one of the young men nips off to the bar he can see him, resplendent in white tie, a young man hanging off his arm and two more at his feet, a crowd of admirers trying to pull chairs as close to the sofa as they can manage. One of them, a touch older perhaps than the crowd of men at his feet, leans conspiratorially into Aziraphale’s side and apparently makes some kind of remark, because Aziraphale slaps a hand over his mouth and tries to hold in one of those ridiculous giggles again.

“Oscar, my dear, you wicked thing!” he says, and Crowley can see the flush on his cheeks from here. “Besides, I’m sure no one would be _that_ interested.”

Crowley arches an eyebrow. He can feel curiosity and jealousy stir in his gut. Aziraphale hasn’t seen him yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he detects Crowley’s presence in the room.

“He’s certainly something else, isn’t he?” a voice murmurs next to him. Crowley looks up to find a rather handsome young man in City black standing at his side. “They all love Azalea, and what’s worse is that he loves them all in return. Should just go back to breaking hearts rather than trying them all on.”

Crowley nods, slightly stunned at this revelation. One of the young men has managed to find his way to Aziraphale’s side and plasters himself next to him before whispering in his ear. Aziraphale smirks, then turns and brushes the young man’s lips with his own.

Crowley can feel every ugly feeling he’s ever had roar up in his chest at that simple gesture, an overwhelming wave of possessiveness that threatens to choke him where he sits, and that must be what does it, because Aziraphale’s eyes snap to his, wide and wondering. Crowley raises his drink in a mock salute, then reaches up and places a hand on the arm of the man standing next to him. He has no idea who this man is, but it doesn’t matter. They’re all here for the same reason, and damned if Aziraphale is going to be the only one playing this game.

Aziraphale swallows, but then turns a bright smile back on his little crowd of admirers. The man who’d kissed him takes his hand and presses his lips to the back of it, and a blonde - tall and thin and rakish - curls an arm around Aziraphale’s leg.

They’ve all staked their claim, and Crowley can’t stand it, but he can’t stop watching, either.

It’s ten minutes until two am, and the gentleman next to Crowley crouches down next to him. “If I may be so bold, ah - “

“Antonia.”

“Antonia,” he repeats, then lifts Crowley’s gloved hand, slips the glove down his arm, and kisses the inside of Crowley’s elbow. It’s an electric touch, a skilled one, and Crowley’s eyes close without thought.

When he opens them again, the gentleman is kneeling on the floor. “Would you be mine for tonight, Antonia?” he asks breathlessly, and over his shoulder, Aziraphale has managed to shoo away his little gang, the blonde and the dark haired man the only ones remaining by his side. The blonde has his head on Aziraphale’s knee, and Aziraphale has his hand in his hair, and the hunger in his eyes can only lead to one thing.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley again, almost a passing glance, as if he were afraid to focus too long, and when he sees the gentleman kneeling at Crowley’s feet, he frowns.

Fair’s fair, Crowley thinks, and places one foot on the man’s shoulder, his skirt slipping up past his knees. “What’s your name, darling?” he says, and watches as the man can’t help but look up his skirt, and the moment he realizes Crowley isn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Claire,” he says, and slides a hand up Crowley’s leg. “And aren’t you a cheeky one.”

Crowley just smirks, and watches as Aziraphale narrows his eyes, then very deliberately leans over to bestow a long, passionate kiss on the man at his feet, then the one tucked up against his side.

The lights flicker as the staff stand ready to douse the lamps. One minute until two.

Aziraphale spreads his thighs and welcomes the blonde between them, while the brunette kneels on the sofa and starts to unfasten his trousers. Aziraphale smiles and reaches for him just as the blonde gets Aziraphale’s trousers open, and Crowley can feel the wet heat of a mouth on the inside of his knee, trailing up his thigh, and he and Aziraphale lock eyes over the heads of their respective paramours as the lights lower and are doused, and Crowley’s cock is enveloped in warmth.

“Oh,” he sighs. The man between his legs - Claire - is damn good at this. Crowley rucks his skirt up to his waist and reaches out until he can feel Claire’s hair in his fingers. “That’s it, darling. You’re awfully good.”

Claire hums, pleased, the vibrations skittering fire along Crowley's nerves. “You’re delicious, darling Antonia. Mind a few fingers as we go? I’d love to feel you a bit.”

Crowley scoots down and spreads his legs further in encouragement, trying to get the sound of Aziraphale moaning across the room out of his head. He can hear his delicious huffs of breath with vicious, pinpoint accuracy over any other sound, and he fights to focus on the way his own body feels. Claire works him with two fingers as he sucks him off, his tongue dancing around the head of Crowley’s cock and Crowley burning from the inside out.

“Fuck me,” Crowley rasps, desperate to feel something, anything, to distract him from what’s going on in the opposite corner. “Come on, make it good.”

Claire doesn’t need convincing, he drops his trousers in a heartbeat and climbs right between Crowley’s legs. “I know it’s hard to see him with other people,” Claire says, as he bears down, rocking himself into Crowley’s body. “Let me make you feel a bit better, just for tonight. Show him how beautiful you are. How you move.”

Crowley startles; perceptiveness in humans isn’t all that common, and yet Claire’s read this entire situation in fifteen minutes. He wraps his legs around Claire’s waist and lets the feel of Claire’s warm body pressed up against his, his tongue in Crowley’s mouth, drown everything else out. But when Aziraphale comes, a sharp cry that lodges in Crowley’s heart like a thorn, he can’t help but return that sound, his own orgasm fast and ruthless, torn out of his body like the echoing beat of Aziraphale’s heart.

……………………………………………………………………..

Crowley didn’t really intend to stay until the six am bell, but, well. Claire was quite good at fucking, after all, and Crowley decided to go a few more rounds with him once he saw Aziraphale lead his two young men to one of the private rooms upstairs. He'd cast one pained, backward glance at Crowley, who had his skirt gathered and flipped over his shoulder, riding Claire’s cock with abandon.

Crowley tried to ignore it, the tug in his body to just go to him and drown himself, glut himself on Aziraphale until hellfire took him, and instead left Claire with rake marks down his chest and the orgasm of his life.

Claire had eventually left, citing a wife to get back to, bestowing a kiss on Crowley's hand and slipping a card into the bosom of his dress. Crowley raised an eyebrow at it but kept it anyway.

As soon as the 6am bell rings, Crowley commandeers one of the changing rooms, quickly switches into City black, and frowns.

He’s going to have to talk to Aziraphale eventually. Perhaps he’ll stop for a good bottle of wine and approach the bookshop later tonight. Once he’s had a bit of time to process what he’d just experienced.

He wanders through the hallway, heading for the front door. There’s a dining room across the large entrance hall, a few diners scattered here and there at white topped tables, and one, single person, defiantly in a cream-coloured frock coat and tie, his ringlets perfectly arranged. Crowley can’t help it, something compels him to cross the entryway and step into the dining room. He walks up to Aziraphale’s table, but doesn’t sit down.

Aziraphale assesses him, cool and impersonal, as if nothing that happened the night before was of any consequence whatsoever.

“Delighted to see you’ve awoken, my dear,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I wondered when that might happen.”

Crowley clenches his teeth. “You’ve been busy. Didn’t think you’d noticed I’d been gone.”

“Oh, I noticed. You think I wouldn’t, once you’d asked me for...for that? Then dropped off of the face of the Earth for a few decades? It took me a few months to figure out where you’d gone.”

Oh. Crowley feels it in his gut, the idea that Aziraphale might have been worried for him, that he might have… done _that_ , but he hadn’t. “I’m here. Just needed a bit of a rest, is all. Time to sort a few things out.”

“Hm. And did you?”

Aziraphale has always been good at this, the leading, careful questions, and Crowley isn’t biting. “I don’t know. I’ve only been awake for a few weeks. I just thought I’d look around and see what’s out there first.”

Aziraphale cuts a slice of melon into pieces, then daintily eats a bite. He finishes chewing, the silence so ripe Crowley wants to scream into it, and says, “Well, then, my dear. Have you gotten what you wanted?” The words are polite but drip acid, and Crowley steps back, burned.

“Aziraphale, I’ve not gotten a single thing I’ve wanted since 1601,” he says, and turns on his heel and walks out into the summer sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, so very much research went into this chapter. Here's some stuff if you're interested!  
> [Using port tongs to open the bottle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpOz1PCTpa4). He uses a shaving brush. [Here it is with a fire and a wet cloth, and just as sloppy as when Aziraphale did it. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XY8deEpMYjk)  
> [Information on the Hundred Guineas Club here](https://oscarwildesociety.wordpress.com/2014/02/20/the-gay-underworld-of-late-victorian-london-theo-aronsons-book-is-a-landmark-study-of-private-spaces-at-the-time-of-oscar-wilde/) with a few specific things I referenced:  
> Hundred Guineas: The membership fee, equal to 105 pounds sterling, or about $10,000 in today's money.  
> Telegram Boys: Telegrams were, as noted in the reference, emails of the day. Boys made a bit on the side delivering messages, and, you know, "messages."  
> Lights: Lights went off at 2am, back on at 6am, what you did between that time is your own business. There were rooms available if you wanted them but you know, exhibitionism is its own kink.  
> The Staff happy to oblige: The staff at the HGC were not permitted to refuse the advances of customers. (ew!)  
> Dresses: Yes, many of the men wore dresses. The expression of gender and sexuality was a bit more tied up a 130 years ago - many gay men felt putting on a feminine persona was par for the course since they all liked men. Interesting conceptually, though we know that's so different now.  
> Victoria: Prince Albert Victor, Queen Victoria's Grandson, went by the name Victoria at the HGC. Was basically as openly, flamingly gay as it gets in the Victorian period, but the poor man died at 29 from Typhus.  
> Ladies Names: Yep, you didn't want your name written down if you got raided by the police, would you? 
> 
> [Crowley's snake brooch, which I would buy if I could.](https://images.app.goo.gl/GUyDpW9f4PqenYYv5)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley doesn’t say a word, just soaks in the feeling of holding Aziraphale in his arms, knowing that even now, even after their last, vicious encounter 23 years previous, Aziraphale still allows at least this, still trusts him and thinks of him as a friend he can turn to for comfort._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Lacuna for excellent beta.   
> My life has been a bit turned upside down lately, so please forgive the delay in this, and thanks for hanging on. <3

Crowley is tempted to go back to sleep and let solitude and rest soothe the sting from Aziraphale’s words, but he doesn’t. He’s just got the hang of the 1890s and it seems a fascinating little blip in the human timeline - exciting new developments in medicine, in science, and, Crowley finds to his fascination, something they’re calling a “horseless carriage.”

He’s determined to buy one.

London is interesting again, so he stays but avoids The Hundred Guineas Club, SoHo, and any little quaint restaurants where he might run into Aziraphale, spending his time lurking among the opium dens and whorehouses of the East End. In the blink of an eye, it’s five years before he speaks to Aziraphale again, when he calls on Crowley for a favour - _trip to Greece, if you wouldn’t mind, old chap, they’ve got me at sixes and sevens, two ends of the Earth at once_. He flits away before Crowley can even formulate a full answer.

Crowley goes, and he doesn’t come back from Greece until the world explodes.

………………………………………………………….

The Western Front, a four hundred mile long gutter into which pours the human capital of much of Europe, is the closest to Hell Crowley has been on Earth.

He slogs his way across Germany for months and dodging border guards until now, in the bitter twilight of a winter’s evening, he stands in the entrance of a field hospital outside of Ypres. He lurks, really, in the way only demons can lurk, and watches with a clenched heart as Aziraphale walks from bed to bed, bestowing blessings on the dying, a gentle touch to send the souls of the young men off to Heaven with a measure of peace.

Crowley should be in there stealing souls for Hell, but they’re getting plenty on their own, from what he can see. Both sides are filling the ranks of the afterlife with a ferocity Crowley’s never seen before, even at the height of some of the worst wars the world has yet seen.

Aziraphale must sense him, perhaps a shift in the wind, or in the light, because he snaps his head up and scans the room. Crowley isn’t quick enough to duck away, and Aziraphale pins him down with a fierce, scrutinizing glare. Crowley can’t move, can’t breathe, as Aziraphale crosses the room, snatches his arm, and drags him outside and around the corner, into the dark alley next to the hospital.

“Hey, I know you’d be glad to see me, angel, but - ,” he quips, trying desperately to break the tension. Aziraphale rounds on him and his wings manifest with a snap, his entire presence lit from within by holy fire. Crowley startles and steps back at the sight, Aziraphale filled and overflowing with power, fury and righteousness pouring from him in waves. Crowley cowers at his feet, afraid of him for the first time in six millennia.

“So help me, Crowley, Serpent of Eden, if you are at all responsible for any of this, I will smite you where you stand,” he says, his voice echoing with the refrain of Heaven’s might.

“No!” Crowley trains his eyes on the ground so as not to stare at that terrible, terrible power, the blood-soaked mud seeping through the knees of his trousers. “I’m not! Just monitoring, watching for maybe a few deserving souls to nudge along the way, but honestly, angel, I swear, this is nothing of mine.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say a word, just stares down his nose, considering, until his fury collapses, the power he’d called upon deserting him in a rush, leaving him looking small, and tired, and very afraid.

“It’s just...they’re so young, Crowley. Just boys. And the gas…” He chokes up, a hand over his mouth, and Crowley slowly climbs out of the mud. Aziraphale is trembling as Crowley takes him in his arms, hands soft on his back.

“I’m not allowed to interfere,” Aziraphale says quietly into Crowley’s lapels. “I can’t stop any of this.” They stand together, feet freezing in the muck, snow starting to fall. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I know this isn’t you, no matter what your reports might say.”

Crowley doesn’t say a word, just soaks in the feeling of holding Aziraphale in his arms, knowing that even now, even after their last, vicious encounter 23 years previous, Aziraphale still allows at least this, still trusts him and thinks of him as a friend he can turn to for comfort. The big guns thunder in the distance, the chatter of thousands upon thousands of rifles exchanging fire creating a hum that never stops, not even for a moment.

Aziraphale sags his weight into Crowley’s body. “I’m so sorry. I can’t seem to stop taking everything to extremes with you, can I? The last time we saw each other, back in London--”

“No need, angel,” Crowley says, but it’s too late, the memory is dragged to the front of his mind, and he clutches Aziraphale more tightly. “It’s all forgotten now.”

“But you understand, don’t you? I just...I was alone, Crowley, and you had just _left_ \--”

Crowley pulls back for a moment and brushes his thumbs over Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Enough,” he says. “It’s all right.” And it is, really. He doesn’t have even a minimal claim to Aziraphale’s loyalty, but as long as Aziraphale dares to be his friend, that’s enough. It will have to be enough.

Crowley kisses the top of Aziraphale's head. “Non-interference, is it?” he says, lightly. “I’m sure, together, we can figure out a way around that. We did manage the Arrangement for the last thousand years; surely we can come up with _something_.”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley with such hope in his eyes that Crowley decides right then and there he’s going to give it everything he has, everything he can manage, to make the carnage stop, even if just for a day.

Six days later, on Christmas Day, 1914, the guns fall silent, and men sing carols and trade cigarettes and candy and pictures across No Man’s Land. For a short, short, twenty-four hours the world is at peace, caught in the middle of a no score draw between one angel and one demon, holding back the forces of Heaven and Hell for a shared love of humanity and each other.

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Crowley should have known that after so many long years of war and suffering and sacrifice, the population of Europe and the United States would absolutely lose their minds once peacetime came.

The nineteen twenties are everything he expected and even more - the horror and repression of the war years leading to an explosion of hedonism, usually taking the form of wild sexual escapades, lots of drugs, even more drinking, and fast cars. It’s risky and fun and almost too much even for Crowley sometimes, who generally prides himself on being the last man standing at every party, carrying the most booze, finding the best game tables and the hottest clubs. It’s a rush of energy that fills the hole Aziraphale left when they split up after Ypres, a solemn goodbye but a quiet, mutual understanding, their friendship reaffirmed.

Crowley hasn’t seen him since, occupied as he was with his assignments during the War and everything that came directly after. Exhausted and fed up, he decided to come to New York last year, drawn by the promise of Prohibition. Everyone knows that the fastest way to get people to do more of something is to tell them not to do it at all, and Crowley quickly finds that given a good clandestine location, good booze, and good music, he could simply bring people to the temptation, instead of wasting all his time doing it the other way around.

It was proving a pretty successful strategy so far - he’s been open six months and only four shootouts and not a single raid, which makes The Devil’s Triangle outrageously popular with the Bright Young Things, and packed to the walls almost every night. No bathtub hooch for his customers, and any business that went on under the table was just that - under the table and no one else’s concern. He runs a tight ship, and he, and his employees, don’t squeal. Stars from the burgeoning motion picture business were known to drop in on occasion, and if Jelly Roll Morton or Jospehine Baker decided to get their drinks from Crowley’s bar and trade them for a song, no one else needed to know.

But now Crowley is half-drunk on a Wednesday night, sitting in his own speakeasy in New York in 1922 and trying not to completely lose his mind watching a young man feed Aziraphale cocaine off the end of a tiny silver spoon.

Aziraphale looks luminous - his cream three-piece suit and slicked white hair are startling against the dark walls and even darker suits of the men around him. He’s giddy and laughing, the cocaine taking effect, and he’s sitting under the arm of a small, slightly round-shouldered chap in a pinstripe suit, tucked into a corner booth. A young woman next to him has blue feathers pinned into her hair, her lips painted a deep, dark red, light shimmering from the diamond bandeau wrapped around her forehead.

A fairly fast set, from what Crowley can see. He’s not sure who is who, and what Aziraphale is doing here, exactly. Aziraphale frowns and drains his glass after the small man next to him absently kisses his hand, and Crowley pushes back from the bar. Wouldn’t do any harm, he figures, to introduce himself. He is the owner, after all.

“Hallo, chaps,” Crowley says. He pulls a chair over from a nearby table and flips it around to sit on the seat and lean his elbows on the back. “How’s the coffin varnish?” He winks, and the entire table laughs uproariously - all except Aziraphale, who looks startled, but holds his composure. Crowley wonders if he’s very, very suddenly sober.

“I’ve heard of you,” one of the men says, with a wide grin. “You must be Crowley! Coffin varnish my left nut - this is some top shelf whiskey! My guts thank you.”

Crowley sketches a half-bow with a flourish. “Guilty as charged. And I figure why bother with this racket if you’re not going to serve the best?”

“I thought the fuzz would have the drop on you before now,” the young woman says, feathers nodding along. “My friend Velma says you’ve paid them all off. Glad you have though, I haven’t had a decent Pink Whiskers in an age.” She swirls her glass around, filled with brandy and and tinted with grenadine, and throws it back. The men watch her and cheer, loudly, as she drains the glass in one go and thumps it on the table.

“Now you, Fred,” she says, and points to his glass.

The small man next to Aziraphale chuckles. “I don’t know, Zira might get mad if I get zozzled again tonight,” he says, and turns infatuated eyes Aziraphale’s way. The rest of the little group groans and gags and hisses disapproval. Crowley can feel his eyebrows climb. Aziraphale looks a bit flustered.

“Oh, no, my dear. I wouldn’t...I don’t mind. Do as you like.” He snags a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabs his forehead, flushed to the tips of his ears. He shoots Crowley little nervous looks, his lip caught in his teeth. He’s obviously worried about Crowley’s reaction to his paramour, so Crowley swallows down his pride, takes pity on him, and waves the waiter over.

“Anything they want, on me, the rest of the night,” he says, and the table cheers again. Crowley stands up and heads toward the front, chased by the loud hurrahs of the group as Fred presumably takes up the challenge.

Crowley pushes through the door and into the night, letting the shock of the cool autumn air clear his head as he leans against the rough brick wall. He’s not upset, really, but he can’t ignore the hollow echo of his chest as he’s reminded, once again, that he can never have the one thing his heart craves over any other. Crowley sighs and lights a cigarette, and takes a deep drag.

The door opens again and Aziraphale steps out onto the pavement. He tips his head back and pulls in a breath as he looks up at the sky.

“Angel,” Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder. “There you are. Is that - since when do you smoke?” He turns around more fully and comes to stand in front of Crowley. He’s close, so close Crowley can just start to pick out the tiny gold threads woven into the blue silk of his waistcoat.

“Since the War, you know. Needed something to do when I wasn’t getting shot at.”

Aziraphale’s lips twist, then he plucks the cigarette from Crowley’s fingers and takes a drag of his own. He blows the smoke out in a thin stream, and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, well,” he says.

Crowley barks a laugh. Leave it to his angel. “Cocaine, though? Wouldn’t have thought that would be your speed.”

Aziraphale twitches his shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes it’s nice to just feel something.”

Crowley isn’t sure how to respond to that. “So, who’s the guy?” he asks, because it’s something to say. He’s fairly sure his question has no trace of jealousy, but Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

“Fred? Well. He’s a chemist at one of the new cosmetics factories.” Aziraphale takes another drag before handing Crowley back the cigarette. “He’s very sweet.”

Crowley carefully puts the end to his lips, wondering if he could taste Aziraphale’s breath on the paper. “Sweet, is he? Don’t remember you liking them particularly sweet, angel.”

“I don’t.”

Crowley’s heart trips over itself. “Angel-”

Aziraphale leans against the brick wall next to him. “He doesn’t make me laugh, Crowley,” he says, his fingers twisting his white handkerchief into a rope. “He’s very nice, yes. But he doesn’t - ”

Crowley can’t stand it any longer. He spins toward Aziraphale and presses him against the wall, his lips seeking the sweet taste of Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale stiffens in surprise then relaxes, his hands finding the sides of Crowley’s face. Crowley sinks into the kiss, licks at the seam of Aziraphale’s lips until he parts them and Crowley can dip inside. God, he’s delicious, the taste as heady and deep as his memories, his body awash in three hundred years of longing, his hands firm on Aziraphale’s hips. Crowley tilts his head to slot his lips more firmly against that lush mouth, press a knee between Aziraphale’s thighs. There’s a firmness against his leg and he growls against Aziraphale’s throat.

“Oh, Crowley, how I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale breathes, his breath tickling Crowley’s ear. Crowley is about to disappear them both back to his rented penthouse when a car backfires and they jump apart, startled. Crowley flattens back against the wall and is scanning the crowd for any demonic or angelic additions before he can think, panic rising, and he only stops when he feels Aziraphale’s fingers on his wrist.

His eyes are sad, and Crowley knows they must stop. He might not care two figs for Hell, but Aziraphale is still one of Heaven's bright lights, and Crowley won't chance his Fall for anything.

"I hate this," Crowley says. "I thought that She made us to love and be loved. So what's the sense in our staying apart?" He pulls Aziraphale in close, breathes his words over the shell of his ear. "Why is this so wrong?"

Aziraphale shudders and closes his eyes. "It's not wrong. I'd know if it were. But it's...it's hard to explain. I'd be cast out, a traitor. Or worse. Who knows what Hell would do to you. They're still planning for Armageddon, you realize."

Crowley does realize, he's seen enough of Hell's planning himself: organized ranks of demons armed with hellfire, maps of Tel Meggido, intelligence about Heaven's stock of Angels increasing tenfold in the last millennia. Something is brewing, and Crowley knows it will be coming soon. So he lifts Aziraphale’s wrist to his mouth and kisses it, gently.

“Someday, angel,” he says. “I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Aziraphale says fiercely. His fingers wrap around Crowley’s own and squeeze, hard, before he walks back inside the bar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes for this chapter:  
> [Christmas Truce of 1914](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce)  
> [How to make a Pink Whiskers](https://bestbartenderever.blogspot.com/2011/04/pink-whiskers.html). I first learned of this from the book "Auntie Mame," and knowing how utterly revolting it is makes me laugh every time.  
> [Here's some 1920s slang.](https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/10/how-sound-bees-knees-dictionary-1920s-slang/322320/) I can't remember where I found "coffin varnish," but it was slang for homemade hooch.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [ Isobel Anderson's "Waiting for You"](https://youtu.be/6OG5tBD0Y14)


End file.
